


Gumption, Graft, Grace, and Accident

by the_law_of_progress



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, also ft the standard amount of Briticisms, many many references to the Crystal Maze, possibly incorrectly used Briticisms, references to the infamous Tiger Tanks, some canon typical swearing, this is pretty silly to be honest, title lovingly borrowed from (you guess it) the Crystal Maze, would it really be Peter if he didn't mock imperial measurements?, would this really be a RoL fic if I didn't mention the Tiger Tanks?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_law_of_progress/pseuds/the_law_of_progress
Summary: On bed rest in the tech-cave after a non magical accident, Peter discovers the true identity of the Faceless Man...(Well, probably not.)





	Gumption, Graft, Grace, and Accident

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness, this series...  
> I've just finished up through "Foxglove Summer" and wrote this as a way of coping until I can read "The Hanging Tree." No spoilers for anything in the series, beyond book book 1.  
> A fair warning: this story is fairly silly. I hope you enjoy it.

It's always nice to be home.  It's even nicer to be propped up on a shit ton of pillows in the tech cave, which is approximately a fuck load of kilos in real measurements.  The TV glowed pleasantly against the dark, as I'd forgotten to turn on the lights, but no matter. Nothing was moving me from my couch-nest.

After getting my arm broken during what turned out to be a non-Falcon investigation, I'd apparently been rushed to the UCH for emergency surgery.  Which means that all I remember is getting pushed down the steps to Marble Arch station- the ones by the main entrance, and, luckily, not the set down to the Tube platform- then waking up in a hospital bed with both Dr. Walid and Nightingale ready to fuss over me.

I'd been released three days later, after getting checked several times for a concussion, the prospect of which made our good doctor terribly excited.  Once it was determined that not only was my arm healing fine, I'd also not bruised my brain, a disappointed Dr. Walid agreed that I might as well recover back at the Folly, where Nightingale and Molly were sure to fuss over me profusely.  And fuss they had.

After being fed more than a Christmas dinner, Nightingale had gently led me up to the tech cave, braving the new world of technology to flip on the TV, although not brave enough to flip the channel from where it had been the last time I'd watched it.  Molly brought up a tray of leftovers, including an assortment of labeled painkillers, of which I gratefully popped a few.

When they left me alone, I'd decided to leave on the marathon of _Derry Girls_ , hoping that the nearly incomprehensible Irish accents would lull me to sleep.

I must have nodded off at some point, because the posh school uniforms and disgruntled Catholic nuns had been replaced by six people in colorful jumpsuits ran around a beachy set that looked like its props had been stolen from the Rainforest Café.  God, how I'd missed _Crystal Maze_.

Richard Ayoade, apparently the show's new host, wearing a suit that I thought wouldn't look out of place in Nightingale's closet, wielded what looked like an umbrella handle with a hand attached.  He twirled it around much like I’d seen Nightingale do with his staff. I was dumbstruck.

Immediately I scrambled for my mobile.  It was on the fourth ring when Nightingale finally answered; rather slow for him, I thought.  "Yes, Peter?" he said, his voice a little shaky.

"Sir?" I asked, all thoughts of multicolored suits and shirts with bug patterns gone from my mind.  "Are you alright. Sir?" I tacked on that last honorific, couldn't let us British allow emotion to take overtake boundaries.

"I'm fine," he huffed.  Or rather, he didn't _huff_ per say, as Nightingale never would, but there was a shortness to his tone.  "What did you ring at three in the morning about?"

I was silent for a moment, terribly confused, before asking, "it's three in the morning?"

I could hear Nightingale sigh.  "Peter. Is anything the matter?"

I thought for a moment, my brain wandering off back to the screen, where purple jumpsuit was trying to stack together totem poles more colorful than the jump suits.  I was delighted when the dragon statue let off not one but _four_ puffs of fire, and nearly forgot I was on the phone with my boss before the screen flipped back to the host and his orange suit, looking intently at the camera, while saying, "Why don't they ever listen?" Oh yes, that's right.

"The Faceless Man, sir!  I've found him!"

I could hear Nightingale tense over the phone.  "Peter, are you sure? Is he there with you? Are you in danger?"  he asked, which would have made me feel rather like I was being interrogated, except he had spoken in such a tone that I knew he cared.  I told him so. "Aw sir, you do care about me."

A short pause, then, confused, "Of course I care about you Peter.  Now, where is the Faceless Man?" It's always all business with him.

"On the TV sir!"  I said, very firmly.  The dragon spat out fire again.  Only twice, so I was mildly disappointed.  

There was a long silence.  "On the… _TV_ ?"  asked Nightingale, in much the same tone one would enquire if it was true that the _Bake Off_ was moving to Channel 4.  "Is the news broadcast reporting his activity somewhere?"

"No sir, he's hosting _Crystal Maze_ right now."  The timer ticked down and purple jumpsuit hurriedly left the fire breathing dragon's room.

The phone made a sound that indicated that the other party has hung up.  I was offended. Nightingale had hung up on me! I thought he'd been brought up better.

A few moments passed.  Richard Ayoade began to prep the jumpsuits for the next task, sticking out his hand staff.  Blue jumpsuit took the proffered hand, running down along the sand steps, across the sand floor, up a different set of sand steps, and stopping in front of a wood door.  Just before blue jumpsuit stepped through the door, I heard someone enter the tech cave.

I already had the forma for _impello_ in my mind when Nightingale announced his presence.  It was a good thing, too, because I probably would've cried if I’d fried the PlayStation.  

"Hello, sir!"  I said cheerfully, without turning round to see him.  He came around the couch, first looking at me, then the screen, then back to me.  "Good morning Peter." he said, which I couldn’t take very seriously, considering he wore a rather elegant bathrobe over his jim-jams.

Nightingale observed me in silence for awhile.  I let my eyes slide back to the screen, where blue jumpsuit now magically had a helmet on _.  Magically_. I pointed frantically.  "See, sir!" I shouted, or at least, I intended to.  Without thinking, I had used my dominant arm to point: the arm that I was supposed to be resting on a pillow throne.  Instead I garbled out a noise that might have been "see" but was more like "se-augh!"

Warm hands gently settled my arm back onto its pillow throne.  I realized then that I had shut my eyes. Opening them carefully, I saw Nightingale had settled next to me on my couch nest.  He was staring intently at my face. After a moment, he said, "Peter, I think it’s past time you take this." He handed me the glass of water Molly had left out, along with two pills that had been labeled "after eleven."  I took the proffered items, downing the pills with a quick sip of water. I handed back the cup with a soft, "thank you sir."

Nightingale nodded, still staring at my face.  Finally, he searched around for the remote, flipping the screen off with a bit of a trouble.  Away went blue jumpsuit, who had been struggling to swim around a 3x3 grid. "No wait!" I said, not willing to let my revelation go.  Nightingale paused. "The Faceless Man sir! He's there!" Nightingale sighed, but flipped the programme back on. Blue jumpsuit was swimming around with some red blocks, much to the exasperation of Richard Ayoade, who was face-palming with his hand-umbrella staff.  "See!" I shouted. "There he is!"

Nightingale must have been quite tired, because instead of leaping up to throw a fireball that could destroy a Tiger Tank, he merely asked- much like a primary school teacher- "Why do you think that, Peter?"

I frowned.  Why did I think that?  Oh yeah. "Well for one, he's got a staff."

"That looks rather more like a baton than a staff."

I shot him a look of annoyance, "Well, fine.  But he definitely dresses like a wizard!" I said, very definitely, crossing my arms defiantly.  Or at least, I tried to. Nightingale gently pulled my arm back down.

"Fortunately, a quality taste in suits does not make one a wizard.  As I'm sure you would have had much greater difficulties with your studies."

I wasn't sure if that was an insult or a compliment, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.  We watched the screen a bit longer in silence. The contestants were being led to a dismal looking medieval castle.  I tried to comment to Nightingale about how the castle must look rather homey to him, him having grown up in the medieval period and all, but it was rather hard to say anything.  My eyes felt rather heavy.

Next thing I knew, the contestants were in the Dome, frantically trying to catch gold- but not silver- tokens in the hopes of winning a fairly mediocre prize.  I felt the warm presence at my side leave, and a soft blanket being draped over me. The screen switched off with a click. Although I was practically floating off in dreamland, I swore I felt a hand gently ruffle through my hair, a quiet "sleep well Peter," and then the door to the tech cave shutting.

We were both British enough to never speak of that night again.


End file.
